Levi Ackerman's Son

What Could Go Wrong? Everything.

Ophelia had always prided herself on knowing when to get lost in her thoughts and when to be present. Today, however, there was a restlessness she couldn't shake, an urgency pulling her into the streets. She showered, wrapped herself in a simple dress, and tied her hair back—today wasn't for being stuck inside. The day stretched out before her, a rare moment of freedom.

The underground was alive as always, a seething mass of desperation. People haggled over goods that didn't matter, addicts clawed at themselves in dark corners, and the scuffle of feet in street fights was a constant soundtrack to the decay. She didn't mind it. It was a harsh reality, one she was accustomed to. But as she wandered further, something caught her eye.

An old man, hunched and blind, was sitting against the wall, his hands shaking as he jingled a worn cup. Coins clinked within. He was muttering to himself, words no one cared about. But Ophelia, for some reason, felt the pull. Her feet moved before she could stop them.

She dropped a coin into his cup. The moment it hit, the old man stopped, and his head turned toward her, though his eyes were clouded with the void of sight. His silence stretched on, unnerving.

"Expectant mother, yes?" His voice was like a rasping wind, old and crumbling, yet somehow clear.

Her heart stuttered, a rush of cold panic seizing her. Nobody knew. Nobody could know.

"Come, sit," he beckoned, his hand waving in the air with a grace that suggested he knew exactly where she was.

Reluctantly, Ophelia slid down beside him, her stomach twisting in a way she couldn't understand. She thought of Levi—of the way he'd look at her when she finally told him. But the time never seemed right, and now here she was, a stranger to herself, sitting before a blind prophet of all things.

"I see much, girl. A light will shine soon—your child will have a hand in it." His words hung in the air like the scent of something burning, unsettling but undeniable.

Ophelia blinked, trying to push away the rising dread. "The future?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

"Aye," he muttered. "Even a blind man can see when the time comes."

Ophelia didn't know if she was more confused or frightened. Her hand instinctively rubbed over her stomach. She didn't know where to begin.

"I see two paths. One where your child will help that light grow into the sun and illuminate the sky." He paused, his blind face turned up as if catching some unseen breeze. "And another where your child will put out that light... and the world will be left in darkness."

Ophelia's breath caught. She hadn't told a soul. Not even Isabel or Farlan. And yet here was this old man speaking of the future of her child, and it sounded like a prophecy she wasn't ready to hear.

"What do you mean?" she asked, her voice shaky now, her mind racing. "How would that happen?"

The old man remained silent for a moment. Then his voice returned, softer, almost as if he were speaking to the air itself. "The father is capable, yes?"

Ophelia blinked, her stomach turning. She thought of Levi—his quiet, furious strength. The way he never lost a fight, and the way she had come to feel so small beside him, and yet so important in some unspoken way.

"Capable in what?" she managed, trying to make sense of this conversation.

"In battle, of course," the old man said, and it wasn't a question, but a statement. He knew.

"Yes," she replied, feeling the weight of the truth. "He's... the most capable man I've ever seen."

The old man chuckled softly, though there was little warmth in it. "The father is both past and present," he murmured. "But the child... the child will be the future."